I’m not a particularly tough guy. I cry a lot more than any grown man should probably feel comfortable to admitting, and frankly there are times where I wish I could cry even more. Sometimes, life feels a bit overwhelming and I think about how a tremendous cry session would feel refreshing and maybe help open the emotional gates and purge, allowing me to end up in a better place than which I started, and if/when it does not occur, I’m left feeling disappointed.
TL;DR, I’m a great big crybaby.
It’s obvious where #2 gets it from.
That being said, there are triggers for me that I’ve managed to get used to, or have hardened up in the face of, where it’s harder for them to choke me up and get the waterworks to start up. Songs, books, memories, photos, etc, being the sentimental sap that I often am, learning that I’m somewhat of a crybaby should be about as surprising as racial violence in Montgomery, Alabama.
However, there’s one thing that has recently found its way back into the picture that absolutely murders me, emotionally, and that is the book Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch. My household has like 400 various books for our children, and some books end up on one of the various shelves around the house and don’t get read for a while, but eventually everything cycles in and out of rotation, and recently Love You Forever came back out of the shelves and into #1’s pile of books in her room.
Prior to the arrival of #1, mythical wife had gotten a copy of it, and reading it then was an impossible task, because I could barely get past the fifth page before I was a sobbing, emotional trainwreck. After #1 was born, and I would spend hours reading to her, I couldn’t finish the book then either, and it was probably even worse, because I was truly learning what unconditional love was with my own offspring, and I probably broke down after the first instance of the song.
Just thinking about these memories alone has already gotten me teary, that’s how potent this book really is.
But it’s back out of the shelves now, and just a few days ago, I took another attempt at reading it, to my now-three-year old daughter, who is whip smart, has a vast vocabulary and is a gamut of emotions and opinions. I made it past page five this time while managing to keep the hose from turning on, but by the time I got to the part where the mom was unable to finish the song from old age, I was done. I started crying so hard, I couldn’t even read anymore.
#1’s got this shit-eating grin on her face, amused at seeing dada completely destroyed by a book, wondering why he’s not reading anymore, because he’s too choked up.
“Keep reading” she says, and I’m ugly cry laughing at how callous my daughter is.
The last three pages are as difficult as the rules to Apocrypha to complete, and I break down again at the part where the child now grown, is singing the same song to his daughter, but I manage to finish the book. She’s still laughing at me, and I’m laughing too while sobbing uncontrollably, because I love my kids forever.
But holy god, does this book really need to come with a trigger warning on the cover. Parents shouldn’t be subject to this kind of emotional genocide from a children’s book.
